


Firebrand

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, JB is Endgame, M/M, Manipulation, POV Jaime Lannister, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, mixing show and book canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: “Does Tyrion have his soulmarks?” Jaime said, after a few minutes of careful silence.Cersei snorted, answering before their father had a chance, “As if anyone could ever love such a beast.”His father added nothing, and since Jaime had not seen anything on Tyrion’s arm as he waved at him, he assumed not. He held his tongue, however, almost mentioning that neither he nor Cersei had their soulmarks either. He wondered what kind of person might complete him.





	Firebrand

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm a sucker for a soulmate AU, I must say. This is fun to write! More headed your way soon! 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think! :)

“Where is Tyrion?” Jaime lifted a spoonful of bisque to his mouth, knowing it was made of the last of the fermented crab that his father had sent in for the funeral from Lannisport. To Jaime, it tasted like pickles, but he liked it if he dipped the soft brown bread that the cook had made sure they had had at every meal since their mother had died into his bowl. He was careful not to slurp, even though the cheese in the broth made the soup so thick he almost had to pour it off of his spoon into his mouth to eat it, and looked at his sister over the top of his spoon. Her green eyes were narrowed at him viscously, and he realized too late that he had asked a stupid question.

Only he didn’t think it was stupid. Tyrion was three weeks old, and Jaime had only gotten to see him when their Lord Father was busy doing other things and the nurse would let him sneak in to the room where he was in his crib._ Monster _everyone was calling him under their breath _grotesque, horrifying, mother-killer. _The first time Jaime had seen him, he had been expecting a creature with wings and scales and sharp teeth that had killed Lady Joanna with all malicious intent.

Instead, peering over the bars of the freshly made crib (his and Cersei’s had been deemed far too old to re-use), he thought Tyrion did not look much different than any other babe. Proportioned differently perhaps, his head already much too large for his tiny body, but he had looked up at Jaime with green eyes that so strongly resembled his own that Jaime had to smile down at him. Tyrion had liked that, it seemed, and reached one of his chubby arms up towards Jaime’s smile, cooing softly to himself as he finally stopped crying for what seemed the first time in days. Since then, the nurse told him he was about the only one who could get him to stop crying, even if Lord Tywin had no idea that they had met at all.

“With the nurse.” His father said sharply, and Jaime glanced over to see his hand curled so tightly around his spoon handle that his knuckles were white.

“Mother said he would be in here with us at meals,” Jaime insisted, and refused to look at Cersei even though he could watch her shocked reaction out of the corner of his eye. “So that Cersei and I could see him more often.”

“Your mother is dead. And I will not have that creature eat dinner with us while the food from her funeral is still on the table.” His father did not sound angry. He did not sound anything actually, which frightened Jaime the most. His eyes were as cold as his voice, staring at Jaime as if daring him to question it further. Jaime turned back to the bisque, pursing his lips. Suddenly the thick orange soup looked far less appealing, even though the butter he had carefully smeared on his toast had finally melted the way he liked it.

“Does Tyrion have his soulmarks?” Jaime said, after a few minutes of careful silence.

Cersei snorted, answering before their father had a chance, “As if anyone could ever love such a beast.”

His father added nothing, and since Jaime had not seen anything on Tyrion’s arm as he waved at him, he assumed not. He held his tongue, however, almost mentioning that neither he nor Cersei had their soulmarks either. He wondered what kind of person might complete him.

Jaime woke one morning to find that his arm was no longer blank, but wrapped around the thick band of his bicep were three black figures. At first, he didn’t believe it, and had to keep looking. At nine years old, he had started to believe Cersei that they wouldn’t ever have soul marks because they were already two halves of one person, but here they were. A blue sword with an oddly shaped pommel, a black bear growling fiercely, and a red leaf from a tree like Jaime had never seen before.

“Jay jay jay jay,” Little Tyrion had waddled into his room while he was still considering them and had squealed in delight at seeing them. At a bit over a year old, Tyrion loved nothing more than following Jaime around the castle grounds, and always stopped by Jaime’s room first thing in the morning after his nurse dressed him where Jaime walked them both to breakfast. This morning, however, he lifted one of his hands to Jaime’s arm where his new marks were, babbling loudly.

“I know,” Jaime agreed, still marveling at them for himself. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking that this meant there was someone out there meant to be with him, someone who shared his soul besides Cersei. The thought came to him, and as soon as it did, he knew he should hide them immediately. She would be livid if she knew. He scrambled up, reaching for a tunic, but it was too late.

“What is he babbling about?” Cersei was already fully dressed in a long gown, her hair pulled back immaculately as she stood in his doorway. Halfway dressed, there was no hiding the truth from her. Her face glowered, her lips pursing outwards. She was angry, perhaps more angry than she had ever seen him, but she didn’t speak for a minute.

He tried to think of something to say, thinking that it would just take some time. When she got her own, this would all be okay. This was only because she didn’t have hers yet, but they would come. They had to come.

“I’m telling father,” Cersei said, and whipped around before Jaime could stop her.

“Jay?” Tyrion tugged at his sleeve, his face scrunched in confusion at why Cersei was angry. Jaime pulled on his tunic the rest of the way, taking Tyrion’s hand to find out whatever his lord father had to say.

Jaime sat in an inn with Ser Barristan, his first mug of real ale—not the upjumped kind that lords served at parties—is in front of him, and he can’t decide if he likes the taste or not. It makes him think of stale breadcrusts, which he has decided he has eaten far too many of for one lifetime. Ser Barristan stood talking with another man, one wearing a set of black robes with furs around the shoulders: A man of the Night’s Watch, apparently, which is why they had come out here. The Night’s Watch needed men, Ser Barristan said they always needed men, and they were here to represent the King.

Jaime did not feel like he was representing the King, sitting on the bar of some dirty inn in the Riverlands, but after two years, he had learned that Ser Barristan usually knew best. If this man wasn’t accompanying them to the city, there was certainly a reason. He shifted the glass again, tapping his fingers against it, watching his knight as he stood talking to the man.

Ser Barristan was talking calmly, which Jaime found amazing since he could see the red spit flying out of the man’s mouth as he spoke. He was chewing sourleaf in large, tearing pieces off and chewing until it looked like his gums were gushing blood over his crooked teeth. He had noticed Jaime staring at him before they came in, before Ser Barristan had gotten him his drink, and had spit a moutful of the red juice between Jaime’s toes, splattering it onto his boots.

Jaime averted his eyes, however, when he saw they were coming to him. The older woman behind the bar, who had been eyeing Ser Barristan with measurable interest since they had walked in, poured up two more glasses. Jaime waited on his mentor to sit next to him, but instead it was this brother of the Watch who sat next to him, black eyes sizing him up like some men might look at a well-cooked ham.

“What’s the matter, boy?” He waved at the serving woman to hand him an extra glass, and as Jaime watched, spit a mouthful of his leaf out before taking another. “You afraid?”

“No,” Jaime said, and refused to drop his stare from the old man, who held his gaze for what seemed minutes before he smiled.

“Might be a good knight after all, Selmy,” He looked away from Jaime to where Ser Barristan sat on his other side. A rare moment out of his Kingsguard armor, Ser Barristan still looked every inch a knight, including his sword tied to his hip that Jaime had seen men die on the other end of. This man, however…Jaime was not sure what he looked like. “He’s a pretty shit, though.”

Jaime scowled, feeling his ears heat up. He had learned that blushing outright led to much more ridicule than whatever had been embarrassing to begin with. He had gotten to where he didn’t outright blush any longer, but he couldn’t help his ears. “He tells me your Tywin Lannister’s heir, boy.”

“Yes,” Jaime said carefully, not really sure of this man’s goal.

“Well, maybe when you’re Lord of that shithole, you’ll send the men you’re supposed to the Night’s Watch,” The man laughed, an ugly sound, punctuated with a spit of juice.

“Only if you don’t come to get them,” Jaime said. For a moment, the two men were silent, and Jaime had a horrible feeling rush over him as he realized he had indeed said that out loud.

“Jaime—” Ser Barristan started, his voice stern as Jaime blanched under his stern gaze. 

But then the man howled with laughter, thumping Jaime so hard on the back that ale sloshed from his glass to the wood of the bar. When he finally calmed down, he looked at Jaime, actually offering him a bit of sourleaf off the block he chewed from. When Jaime shook his head, he took his own bite.

“Don’t know if I can make that promise,” The man said, “They might send someone even more frightening that me. Scare you and your little lady wife.” He swiveled his head back to Ser Barristan, who had the oddest look his face as watched their interaction, “Who is it the Lannister’s are marrying these days? Besides each other.”

Jaime felt a protest bubble up in his throat at that. It was true that his father and mother were second cousins, but they were also soulmates. Meant to be. Ser Barristan, rather than answer, took a deep drink of his own ale, and the man turned back to Jaime. “Who’ve you got on your arm, then?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime said honestly. And it was true; none of the marks on his arm were sigils and there were many that none of the people he had asked had been able to identify. It was not a sword anyone knew, and of the house sigils with bears, none of them looked like the one Jaime had.

“Let’s see it then,” The man said, and Jaime glanced at Ser Barristan, who nodded. Jaime rolled up his sleeve, the man grabbing his arm roughly. He stared at the marks carefully, the colors and the shapes, and took a spit.

“My father thinks it may be House Tully,” Jaime said, “Because of the red and blue.”

“Lots of these houses got red and blue.” He said, and twisted Jaime’s arm. “Might be a northern woman. Weirwood leaf, that is, and you won’t find one of them left in the south.”

“Our Maester said that was supposed to be a place of significance in our relationship,” Jaime felt childish saying it, even more so as an eyebrow was raised at him. But it was what the maester had said to him, when his father had been trying to see if it might help secure a marriage to another powerful house.

“Aye, and this one’s supposed to be a symbol of your relationship,” He pressed his nail into the blue sword on Jaime’s arm, “And this is when you fall in love with them.” He pressed his finger to the bear. “Bunch of horseshit if you ask me.”

“What would you know about it?” Jaime asked, unable to control his anger, “Men of the Night’s Watch can’t marry.”

“Aye,” The man said, and turned to him fully, “Or the Kingsguard.” He gestured at Ser Barristan, and Jaime felt absurdly guilty for what he had said, “Doesn’t mean we don’t know things, ya shit.” He rolled up his sleeve, pushing up his black robes that let off a sour smell, as if mildewed. His marks were there, only instead of filled in, they were only thin black outlines and the skin between was milky white. What looked like a child’s doll, a horse, the outline of a small farmhouse. “Died.” The man said, spitting into a glass, “Fell off a horse when we were nine years old and died right there. That what I know about it.”

He turned away from Jaime and didn’t to him the rest of the time. After he had only finished half of the ale, Jaime couldn’t stand the taste or the smell or sitting there any longer, and with Ser Barristan’s permission, went upstairs to try and sleep.

“You don’t have to agree to it,” Cersei stood in the darkness of his bedroom, long after both of them were supposed to be sleeping. “There are ways around it.”

“Maybe she is my soulmate,” Jaime conceded, though everything about the situation told him that was not true. How many times had his father said it to him? Too many to count. So many that half of him started to believe it, but Lysa Tully did not feel like his soulmate. She did not feel like his wife. “And if I’m to be heir to Casterly Rock, then I have to marry someone…”

“You don’t!” Cersei insisted, her voice a harsh whisper. Jaime thought that was a bit hypocritical, since she was now engaged to the Prince, and she certainly had to marry despite still not having a soulmark on her arm. “You don’t belong with her.”

Jaime was unsure whether she meant Lysa Tully or the woman who’s mark he had on his arm.

She reached her hands out and touched his face, over his jaws. At fifteen years old, they had never looked more similar. People marveled at them, he knew; many had told him so. There wasn’t a tavern he and Ser Barristan could go into anymore without a barmaid making a pass at him. But the mark on his arm held him back. He knew not many people took heed that their soulmate was the only person they should ever be with, after all, there were dozens of bastard children born before people met their better half. But he supposed that he had always liked the notion. All of the knights in stories only ever loved their true soul mate, all the fair maidens only ever loved theirs. Every time someone made eyes at him, or tried to entice him, he thought of nights he would never speak of that he had spent staring at the marks on his arm, wondering who they might show.

“We belong together,” She said, and before he could stop her, she was kissing him on the mouth. It was wrong, so very wrong, and it felt wrong to Jaime, but he couldn’t stop her. Not his sister that he loved, not the person who was supposed to have the other half of his soul.

“You can join the Kingsguard. When you’re knighted,” She pulled back from him for a moment, her face flush. She had a look writ across it, strange and a far cry from the romance of fair maidens he had always heard about. But then her hands were touching him other places and she was kissing him again and he forgot about that look until late that night, when she had disappeared into her room again.

Victory. As if she had won some great prize. He closed his eyes and touched his arm, but the look wouldn’t go away.


End file.
